


you only

by Jae



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-20
Updated: 2004-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jae/pseuds/Jae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always an ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you only

_i. ghosts in the eyes_

Justin's mother mails six letters for him - he has to send letters, the only phone number he has was disconnected months ago - before she starts shaking her head sadly as she watches him check the mailbox after school. He mails the next one himself, but he doesn't count on it coming back, battered and dog-eared, marked _addressee unknown_. None of the others came back.

"Baby," his mother says, but Justin doesn't look at her. He opens up the envelope and unfolds the letter, spreading it out carefully, the paper creamy beige and a little rough under his palm. He hadn't wanted to use a page out of his notebook, like some school kid. He reads his own round cursive, stupid jokes about his classes, questions so obvious and eager that he's embarrassed. He's almost glad that no one else got a chance to read this.

"Baby," his mother says, and Justin folds the letter back up and fits it back into the envelope. He hadn't ripped it when he opened it, just eased the flap open, but of course the glue doesn't stick hardly at all anymore. He drags his fist across it, slowly, rubbing back and forth, but the flap comes loose again as soon as his hand moves away. "I'm sorry," his mother says, and Justin says,

"I don't know why he won't - I thought we were friends."

"You were," his mother says soothingly, and Justin didn't notice the past tense when he said it. "But you know, he's probably moving around a lot, working, and he's got a lot of responsibilities, and, well - Chris is a grown man, honey. There's a lot of years between the two of you - and at your age, those years are a big gap."

"They weren't when he was here."

"Yes, well." She looks like she's just decided not to say something. She still thinks of Justin as younger than he is sometimes.

"Tell me," he says, deliberately whining, shoving his chair back from the table, spilling the glass of milk she poured for him. "It's not fair, if you know something - you never tell me." He knows from experience that if he can make her mad, she'll say more than she wants.

"It's like I said," his mother said. "There's a lot of years between you two. And at his age, those years mean something."

"I'm not - " Justin says. "I'm not a kid."

"Yes, you are," his mother said. "And that's where you're lucky. You've got a lot of chances in front of you, baby, and one of them's going to be your chance. But Chris is - he's not a kid. That was his last chance, your thing." She gets up and grabs a dishtowel from the counter, to mop up the spill. "I'm sure he doesn't need to be reminded of that, right now."

Justin says, stung, "I would never - what, you think I'd rub it in or something, if I ever get a deal or -"

"When," his mother says crisply. She catches his letter with her rag as she wipes the table. He lets it go. "Don't say if."

"I wouldn't remind him."

"You couldn't help it, baby. You can't help what you are."

"What am I?" Justin says. His mother washes out his glass and puts it back in the cabinet before she answers.

"You can't help reminding him," she says.

\-- -- --

Chris is only watching MTV because he's trying to break himself of his NYPD Blue habit. There used to be a vast three-hour wasteland of boring TV between the end of General Hospital and the first Friends rerun. That was when he got most of his work done, typing away to the soothing sounds of Oprah or one of the syndicated 80s sitcoms that even Chris can't get into. Then they started running a block of NYPD Blue in the afternoon and Chris was screwed.

Of course, he could just turn the TV off. "Please," Chris says to the empty room. "Like that's ever going to happen." One of the perils of working at home is the need for constant background noise to drown out his isolation. Another peril is talking to himself. Still, as far as Chris is concerned, working at home is the best invention ever. They should be using this to keep kids from dropping out, instead of those stupid ads with celebrities reading. Nobody believes those things, anyway. Any child unfortunate enough to believe that Avril Lavigne's success had anything to do with her ability to read was beyond help, anyway. If they really wanted kids to stay in school, they should post pictures of Chris just like he was now: remote in hand, sitting cross-legged on his couch in his old pajama pants and stained sweatshirt, bottle of Coke on the floor next to him, laptop on the coffee table. The caption could read: "I get paid $70,000 a year - for this!" Dropout rates would plummet.

If he wants to keep this sweet gig and remain the role model for the nation's youth that he is, though, he has to get a little work done. That means no more NYPD Blue. He's flipping through the channels, looking for something soporific enough to get him through the next couple of hours, when he's caught by a video. He's never seen it. That's no surprise - he doesn't follow music much anymore, at least not the kind they show on MTV. He watches it through to the end and writes the name of the band down on a corner of a magazine. He leaves the channel on and gets back to work.

Chris looks up a few minutes later when the girls start screaming. He fumbles for the remote to change the channel, then stops. He thinks, I know that kid. The girls are still screaming and the host is chattering, so Chris hits mute as he studies the TV. Then the kid grins, wide, smile wide enough to swallow his whole face and the whole world, and Chris knows a second before the words on the screen pop up.

He turns the sound on again and listens to Justin say how excited he is about his first single, mentions the drop date of his album three times. Chris doesn't write the name down. He hits mute again right before Justin starts to sing.

The phone is sitting right next to him, and he thinks for a moment about calling a friend, saying, "Hey, turn on MTV right now. I know that kid!" But he doesn't know what else he'd say. They all know, all his friends, about his boyband days, but they think of it as another Chris story, like the time he got a job bouncing at the country and western bar, or when he decided to be a bike messenger in Chicago in January. Funny stories, that's how they think of them, because that's what Chris made them. That's how he talks about them now, now that he knows all those jobs were just bends in the road that got him here, instead of the dead ends they'd looked like at the time. That's how he thinks of them, when he does. Mostly he doesn't think about them at all.

Justin has stopped singing and is now talking earnestly to the cameras. Chris can guess what he's saying. He doesn't turn the volume back on, but he doesn't change the channel. Finally Justin smiles again, and they play another video. Chris turns the TV off.

"I know that kid," he says to the empty room.

_ii. ain't that young anymore_

Every morning, Justin lies in bed and lets himself have one regret.

Once upon a time he'd told some magazine that he didn't believe in regrets. Chris had given him for shit for it, hopping up onto the kitchen counter and rolling his eyes over the article. "What's that supposed to mean, you don't believe in them? You think that means anything? I can say I don't believe in Alaska - after all, I've never been there. But you know what, no matter how much I say that, it's still fucking there."

"Okay, okay," Justin said, moving between Chris' legs, face tilted up to Chris'. He didn't really know what Chris was on about, but he figured this was as good a way as any to shut him up. Back then he hadn't understood what Chris was on about a good quarter of the time and was desperate to keep Chris from finding that out. "Can we stop this, before you start making me have regrets? I promise, I believe in them," he said, leaning into Chris. "I do."

Chris caught Justin's face in one hand, and Justin jerked away a little. But Chris' thumb was gentle as he placed it over the center of Justin's lips, hushing him. "No," Chris said, and Justin still didn't understand. He'd thought that was what Chris wanted him to say. "No, you don't. You've never been there."

Now Justin understands.

He doesn't talk about it all the time. Another thing Chris used to say, not lately, a long time ago, but Justin remembers. Sometimes he thinks he could write a book of all the stories Chris has told him, all the things Chris has said. Sometimes he thinks he is that book. Chris said once, "People don't want to hear somebody else's sad story," and Justin protested, because he didn't mind hearing them, some people had a hard time, he could sympathize. Chris just laughed and shook his head and said, "People don't even want to hear their own sad story." Justin hadn't understood.

Now Justin understands.

Every morning, he allows himself one regret. That's the only way he knows to keep them from overwhelming him, drowning him, turning him into nothing but a sad story nobody wants to hear. He knows he doesn't want to hear it. So every morning, before Chris wakes up, Justin lies next to him and lets one regret wash over him. Sometimes it's the same regret morning after morning. Sometimes it has to be.

In the beginning it was easier. He wasn't ready for it to be hard. It's not that those regrets were lies, they weren't, they were real. They were just easier. He still remembers the first one. It was silly, but even so it stung like salt everywhere he was soft.

_I wish I never heard the words "sophomore slump"._

They'd only gotten harder, deeper, since. It's been the same one for ten days, and he fought it at first, even though he knew it was useless. He fought it a little less every time. Yesterday he didn't fight it at all, just closed his eyes as it seeped into him from every side. It wasn't something he could ever tell anyone, not without dying of shame at the simplicity of its childish wail.

_I wish someone had liked it._

It won't be the same one today. He can tell by the ache in his throat, the raw rough well of something deeper than the tears he won't shed over it. He's afraid of it, and he knows that doesn't matter. It will come anyway.

Justin feels it, feels it and fights it a moment before he realizes what it is. He rolls over and sees Chris, lying beside him, tucked into himself with his face turned away from the sunlight. He's watching Chris when it strikes him, shocks him like a wave of cold water, leaving him breathless and blinded in its wake.

_I wish I were anywhere but here._

\-- -- --

Justin is standing on the porch when Chris wanders out there looking for the paper. Chris thought he left hours ago. He wonders if Justin left and came back, or if he's been standing there all afternoon. He doesn't ask.

"Can I ask you something?" Justin says. Chris closes his eyes briefly. Justin never used to ask questions like that.

"Sure," Chris says. "But turn around - I don't wanna talk to your back."

Justin turns and leans against the railing. Chris isn't sure why he said that. He's been doing a lot lately to avoid looking at Justin's eyes.

"Do you like the record?"

Chris can't close his eyes with Justin looking at him, but he wants to. Justin never used to ask questions like that, either. "J," he says, "you know I did - I do, you know."

"Good," Justin says, and smiles at him. It's not shaky at all, but it's slow, slower than it's ever been, like it's carrying more weight than it used to. If it wasn't Justin, Chris would hate that smile. Of course, if it wasn't Justin, Chris would have no reason to hate it. "I just - I'm glad you do."

"Good," Chris says stupidly. He's bad at this. He's fine with anger, fighting, even tears if they're wild and sudden. But some deep instinct in him resists this new hesitation of Justin's. When Chris isn't careful, he finds himself with his fists clenched to keep from shaking Justin. Chris is careful now, because that isn't fair. What Justin is losing now is something Chris lost long ago, and maybe Justin had something to do with that but that wasn't his fault and he still doesn't know. Chris remembers what it felt like, though, even if his own reaction had been loud and furious and frantic. It hurt, Chris remembers, and he reminds himself of that when Justin chews on his lip for a couple of minutes before he says,

"Did you ever think that it was maybe - not going to sell so well?"

Chris doesn't know what to say. That's been the problem all along. Of course he knew, they all knew, pushed back twice and Pharrell bowed out, Justin said it was because Tania was having her baby but she was having her baby for three other albums Pharrell worked on. Chris listened as Justin told him about each tiny little setback, listened and felt dread crawl through his stomach like a cramp, the kind that leaves you raw-voiced and retching before the night is over. He lay awake over it while Justin slept next to him. Chris knew, and he didn't know how to tell Justin.

Sometimes he told himself that he didn't have to say anything, that Justin knew, was just putting on a brave face. Chris knew it wasn't true, though - he knew all Justin's faces and none of them were fake. He had a hard time believing Justin couldn't know, somehow, somewhere, but the record was good and it was Justin's and throughout the whole mess Chris still couldn't help feeling sometimes like that would be enough. He knows Justin never saw it coming.

"No," Chris says. "No, baby," because he doesn't know how to say yes, doesn't know how to tell Justin that he let him walk into it unprepared, alone. There are some things you can never really prepare for, some things you always do alone, but that wasn't why he hadn't said anything to Justin. When Chris tells himself the truth he knows he didn't say anything because he didn't want to be the one who told Justin, didn't want to be the person Justin saw every time he thought about it. He knows there's no way he can say that to Justin without it sounding like a betrayal. When Chris tells himself the truth, he knows that's because it was a betrayal.

"Yeah," Justin says, "I wish -" He stops and smiles again and Chris feels his nails in his palms. "I know I suck to be around right now. I promise, I'll snap out of it soon, I'm sorry -"

"Don't," Chris says. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

"Thanks," Justin says, his voice small. He runs a hand over his head and sighs. "Listen, I think I'm just gonna - I need to be alone right now, okay?"

Chris doesn't know how to tell him that he already is.

_iii. summer praying in vain_

"Wait," Justin says. "Wait, I didn't mean stop."

"Okay, then your first mistake was when you just now said stop."

"I didn't mean, like, put on your pants and go stop. I meant more like, just let me move this pillow out of the way stop."

"Justin," Chris says, and that's never the best sign at a moment like this. _J_ or _kiddo_ or _look, asshole_ \- all of those Justin can work with. But Chris has been restless and bitchy all day, conversations screeching to a stop like a needle lifted off a record for reasons Justin can't understand. One of Chris' moods, Justin's been thinking. He's used to them, doesn't even mind them half the time. Not when Chris takes it out on him, fucking him just the wrong side of nasty, filthy words scratching at his ears and Chris laughing softly while Justin twists beneath them. There's a fine line, though, between that and Chris getting pissed and taking off and not calling for three days, and Justin's afraid that line's about to be crossed.

"Nothing, see, all finished, all ready to go." Justin crawls across the bed to Chris but Chris is already sitting up. Justin puts his head against Chris' thigh and Chris shoves at him, not too rough for Justin's taste but a little too dismissive.

"What the fuck is with you and the pillows?"

"Nothing," Justin says, and Chris looks at him. "It's just, those pillows are new, and I don't want to get them fucked up, and those shams are velvet, which is not all that easy to get cleaned -"

Chris is laughing. Justin's not exactly sure why but he sits back on his heels and waits it out, smiling. This is always a good sign. Chris is easy for a laugh; if he thinks you're funny you're golden. The day Justin can't make him laugh is the day Justin will start to worry. He doesn't expect that day to ever come. Justin makes Chris laugh a lot, and though he's not always totally sure why, it's probably better that way. It's better for it to just happen naturally.

"Christ Jesus," Chris says, falling straight back on the sheets next to Justin, "I can't believe you. 'Those shams are velvet.' I tell you, kiddo, I been kicked out of bed for a lot of different reasons, in a lot of different languages even, but I think that's the best one yet."

"I wasn't kicking you out," Justin says. "It's just, they're new, they're nice -"

"They're velvet," Chris says. "I know. Man, I don't think I even knew what shams were before now."

"See," Justin says, leaning over to kiss Chris' stomach, "I'm educational, even. Full-service boyfriend."

"Man, when we break up, we'll dress it up all fancy, but it'll boil down to the same thing - you like to keep the shams nice, and I don't even know what the fuck they are."

Justin says, "Shh," and reaches up to cover Chris' lips with his fingers. Chris says things like that casually, when we break up, and Justin always hates it. He hates it because he knows deep down Chris believes it. Chris has gotten where he is by saying what he wants, by daring to name it and then making it happen. But Justin has heard him talk himself out of things, too, things Chris doesn't believe he deserves. Words have power for Chris, over him, and so they have power over Justin, too.

"Shh," Justin says again, and slips his fingers inside Chris' mouth, smiling as Chris sucks on them. Justin doesn't want to be something Chris talks himself out of.

\- - -

"Toss me the remote," Chris says.

"You're so romantic."

"Oh, sorry," Chris says. "Toss me the remote, darling."

Justin laughs, pushing himself up first on his hands and then onto his knees. He arches his back and lets a stretch ripple over him before feeling around lazily for the remote. Chris is sitting with his back against the couch, legs straight out in front of him. There's a pillow on the floor just out of arm's reach, but it might as well be on the moon, the way Chris feels now. Justin finds the remote underneath a magazine and puts it in Chris' hand, but doesn't let go.

"I want to talk to you about something," Justin says.

"Oh," Chris says. "Oh, goody."

"Naw, it's not bad." Justin rolls up until he's sitting cross-legged. Just curling his hand around the remote makes Chris ache. Chris hates him.

"How can you even move right now?" Chris says.

Justin smiles sunnily. "Clean living," he says. "Plus yoga. You should try it sometime."

"I have," Chris says.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, when I was in Palm Beach. You were on tour or something, I don't remember. But I tried it - and it wasn't baby yoga like you do, it was the hard yoga, the one where they turn the heat up to like a hundred degrees."

"How come you don't do it anymore?"

"Well, about half an hour into it I had to go lie down, and they had the whole building heated up so I had to go outside and lie down on the sidewalk," Chris says. "Don't look at me like that - it was Palm Beach. There's always people lying on the sidewalk. Anyway, you wanted to talk about something?"

The laugh slides off Justin's face. "Yeah, I just wanted - you think maybe you could knock off the breaking up talk?" Chris sighs, and Justin says, "I mean, I know you're joking, but I just - it makes me feel weird, all right?"

"What, you think if we never say it it'll never happen?"

"No," Justin says, but he won't look at Chris. Chris sighs again. Justin is a big believer in positive thinking. Chris can't blame him, really - he's not sure there's anything Justin has ever wanted that he hasn't gotten. God knows Justin works hard, but he wants even harder, and Chris has never been totally sure which has gotten him farther. Justin's won an awful lot by refusing to admit that defeat even exists.

There's something to be said, though, for preparing yourself things. Buying fire insurance doesn't mean you think your house is going to burn down; it just means you're aware of the existence of fire. Still, he thinks, as Justin looks back up at him gravely, maybe there are some things you can't prepare yourself for. Some things are just gonna hurt like hell, no matter when they happen, no matter how much you expect them. Some blows can't be softened.

"Just, please?" Justin says. "For me?"

"Sure," Chris says. Justin's smile breaks him open every time and he can tell himself every day that this is going to end, it's still going to hurt like nothing else on earth. "For you, anything."

_iv. the skeleton frames_

It starts with a phone call.

Middle of the night, three a.m. phone ringing and ringing in the sleep-dark house. The way so many nightmares start.

Of course, Justin doesn't know it's starting. Three years from now his phone will ring in the middle of the night, three a.m., wrong number, drunk girl. He will answer it on the first ring and he will not stop screaming into the receiver until the neighbors knock. But that hasn't happened yet. He is not that person yet.

Tonight the phone rings and rings.

It doesn't stop.

It doesn't stop until he picks up the phone.

"Justin," Joey says, and if it were anything like all the stories he would have known, right then, and dropped the phone or shivered as his blood ran cold or felt something, something, anything. But he doesn't. Everything stops, for a moment, for a breath, and it isn't until later that he realizes how much lives in the pause before Joey says, "Justin, you've got to come over right away."

He lives in that pause.

Not Justin.

JC lets him into Joey's house. JC doesn't say anything, just grabs Justin's sleeve between three fingers and leads him silently up the stairs to Joey's room. Like a ghost, Justin thinks. Like a ghost.

Five steps inside Joey's room and JC stops but doesn't let go of Justin's sleeve. Joey is standing in the middle of the room. Lance is sitting on the bed, his face turned away. Justin doesn't really see him. His eyes pass over him and his brain registers that Lance is there. He doesn't know yet, but maybe part of him does, because his mind is noting who's there and who's not, checking off the list. It's a short one.

"Where's Chris?" Justin says, and Joey's head snaps up and JC's grip on his sleeve snaps tight at the exact same moment.

Joey is talking. Joey is talking and talking and talking and Justin knows he should be listening, but after the first words he knows he doesn't have to listen any more. _Beach, storm, accident, lostlostlost_. Joey is talking and talking and talking and Justin thinks that Joey must have gotten the call. Of course it was Joey, because nobody would call JC first with something like that because who would want to hear the first thing JC would say. No, it must have been Joey, Justin thinks, and poor Joey. Poor Joey. He is flooded with love and pity for poor Joey who is talking and talking and talking.

Joey stops.

Everything stops, for a moment, for a breath, and so much lives in that pause, so much, too much, and Justin says, "No."

"Kiddo," Joey says, and "honey," and JC's hand is no longer clutching Justin's sleeve but is bruise-tight around his wrist and Joey takes a step toward him.

Then Joey stops.

There is a noise rising around him. It's coming from Justin, he knows that. There is no moment like in the stories where he wonders who's making that sound. That sound is coming from him but he's not making it. It just comes. It's not a sound that Justin could make, it's not a sound he has ever thought he would be capable of. It's not a sound any person should be capable of.

There are no words in that sound, or for it.

JC slaps him, hard, and the sound is jarred from him. JC's hand comes again and Justin flinches, whimpers, and the small sound echoes from JC's lips. His hand is gentle this time over Justin's cheek and mouth and Justin tastes blood and silver. JC wears a ring.

"J," JC says, and Justin shakes his head and steps back and back.

"No," Justin says.

\-- -- --

Chris waits.

The word sits in his mind for a while before the meaning follows, a flash of hard chairs in ugly rooms and he sees those things a moment before he names them. There are words now, and flashes, and things, and there weren't before. He doesn't know how he knows but he does. He is Chris. He waits. These things don't feel new but they weren't there before. Or they were and he didn't know. He doesn't know why he knows now. And that word is there too now, _why_, shivering around him like a snake.

There is a sound rising around him, bristling, rustling, the sound of endless pages turning and turning. The sound is like a wind and he turns with it. As he turns he sees others, like him, people, gray and smoky, like their own shadows. There is no weight to them, to him, all of them floating with their feet on the ground beneath them, almost lost in this desert of gray and smoke. They are all waiting. Chris doesn't know how he knows but he does. Each of them carries a bag, and as he thinks that Chris feels the phantom pressure of the straps on his shoulders, the bag against his back.

Chris turns and turns and the people melt away and more take their place. He feels as if they only appear when his eyes fall on them, as if they'd disappear if he closed his eyes. He wants to close his eyes. He wants to stop turning. These people are not new but once he didn't know they were there. He doesn't know how he knows that but he does. The word _why_ slithers through him. Once he was not waiting and he was not Chris and he was not.

Chris turns and turns and he sees the boy. He stops and closes his eyes but when he opens them the boy is still there. The boy is not like Chris or the others. He is pale and there are smudges of smoke at his throat and his forehead but there is a scrape of purple across his cheek, bleeding into his mouth which is not pale but pink and his eyes -

"J," Chris says, and the word is heavy as a stone inside him. He doesn't know what it means but he knows the word goes with this boy.

"You remember?" the boy says. "I came, for you, I came to take you back. I can take you back, he said, and I did it, he promised I can. Chris, come back."

The words swim in his head and Chris can't find pictures for them. The sound rises again, pushes at him but it doesn't turn him yet. The boy closes his eyes and says another word that Chris has no picture for, something long and round and flowing. The word stretches his mouth, stretches a cut at the hinge of his mouth and Chris watches as it stretches and stretches and splits, a drop of crimson springing to the boy's lip.

"Oh," he says, "oh, bright," and reaches out to touch it. The boy smiles under his fingers and he is not like Chris, he is weighed down and warm with bone and blood and breath.

"Chris," the boy says, and Chris' fingers move to the smudge at the boy's throat. Right there, Chris thinks, the boy tastes like the sun. He doesn't know how he knows.

"Chris," the boy says, "come back."

This time there is a picture for those words. Chris sees a stairway, twisting wide and dark as night. The boy walks over to it and starts to climb. There is blood on Chris' fingers and another word heavy inside him. He shrugs his shoulders and the bag sinks from his back with a long slow sigh. Chris climbs.

The stairway is warm and solid, like the boy, and as Chris rises he gets heavier, words and names filling the emptiness that he was. The boy calls his name but Chris is swarmed by pictures, sounds, summer cinnamon song radio tender want. They rattle and clash inside him, bouncing and breaking bright against each other, turning and turning and he thinks kaleidoscope, hard plastic in his hand and a woman laughing. The boy calls his name again and Chris wants to answer but there are so many words, tumbling over each other and Chris wants all of them, all, every one, he can't pick which one to shape first he wants he wants he wants -

Blue eyes meet his, blue and suddenly they are shining. Tears, Chris thinks. Those are tears. The pictures fall away inside him. The boy is still looking over his shoulder. All Chris can see now is blue and bright, bright like ocean sky like everything lost like Justin.

"Oh," Chris says, "oh, bright."

A sound rises from Justin, a sound without word or picture or meaning, empty as Chris was. It shatters Chris with a sharp terrible pain, worse than the last pain, the one that tore him from the world, the last one last it was meant to be the last oh _why_ -

Chris stands in a vast desert of gray and smoke. A sound rustles around him and he turns and turns with it. When he stops turning there is a bag at his feet. He reaches down and picks it up. That is what he is meant to do. He doesn't know how he knows but he does.

Chris waits.

_and I want_

Chris is flipping through the CDs Justin brought with him. He slides one into the stereo and says, "I'm starting to get a little worried here. You're not even trying to tell me what music to play? I don't know if you've just had the best fuck of your life, or if you're dead."

"I think I'm still alive," Justin says. He rolls over onto his back. "Yeah, still alive."

"Smart money was always on option one."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say." Chris looks at him and Justin smiles. "No, seriously. Whatever you say."

"That's what I like to hear." Chris holds a glass of water to Justin's mouth while he drinks, then takes it over with him to the window.

"This is a sad song," Justin says.

"Mm."

"It's funny, isn't it, how most songs are sad?"

"I don't think that's true," Chris says. "There's a lot of happy songs."

"Yeah, but even most happy songs, they're kind of sad, you know?"

"Baby, I think I broke you. Feel around next to the bed, see if your brain's down there."

"No, no listen. See, sad songs, they're all about wanting something you lost, or something you never had -"

"Okay, see, it wasn't the part where sad songs are kind of sad where you lost me."

"But even happy songs, they're usually about wanting something too, you know? Wanting somebody and you think you'll get with them, or wanting more with someone, or even party songs are about wanting something, too, just something shallow."

"I'll grant you that because I'm too tired to think about whether it's true or not, but I still don't see how it makes them sad."

"It's just - no one's ever completely satisfied, you know? Everybody's always wanting something. All the songs, they're all about wanting."

"You think maybe that's because that's what life's about?"

"No, it's not," Justin says, sitting up on his elbows. "Not all, at any rate. I mean, like, take us, for example."

"Just randomly chosen, of course."

Justin talks over him. "I mean, there isn't a song that's as happy as we are right now."

"Maybe you should try to do something about that, instead of arguing with me." Chris smiles and Justin smiles back at him.

"Maybe I will, but first I've got an argument to win. Shouldn't take long." Chris raises his eyebrows and Justin laughs. "No, but listen. Right now, I'm completely happy and it's cause, you know, I've got everything I want. I'm not wanting." Chris' eyebrows go back up and Justin says, "Seriously. I've got room service, Roy Orbison, and you. What else is there to want? And, you know, I could live without two of those things in a pinch."

"Your affection for Roy Orbison is very touching."

Justin laughs. "And I know, both of us would starve to death in about two weeks without room service. But that's a minor point. We're, like, the happiest people in the world right now, and I don't want anything at all."

"Okay," Chris says. They both know Justin can't leave that tone unchallenged.

"What? You gonna try and tell me I'm not happy? Gonna try and argue me out of my happy ending?"

"A happy ending's not so hard, for people like us," Chris says. "All you have to do is close the book at the right place. You're right - nobody's happier than us right now. All we have to do is end it right here, and we've got our happy ending. If you want it."

Justin looks down at the bed and Chris says, softly, "So you want it?"

"No," Justin says, just as softly. He looks up and meets Chris' eyes. "I want more. I want years and years and years. I want -"

"You want," Chris says. Before Justin can say anything else, Chris says, "Me too. I want."

"I want," Justin echoes without taking his eyes off Chris. "More than a happy ending, I want more. I want."

"Even if it's happy, baby," Chris says, "it's still an ending."


End file.
